


the other side of despair

by any_open_eye



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24074047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/any_open_eye/pseuds/any_open_eye
Summary: Kaz lasts fifteen days before trying his luck, swaggering up after hours on base, one hand adjusting his scarf, the other holding a beer. “Want a drink?"(there are no birds to watch on mother base, so cécile studies kaz instead)
Relationships: Big Boss/Kazuhira Miller, Cécile Cosima Caminades/Kazuhira Miller
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	the other side of despair

**Author's Note:**

> I love Cécile, she deserves way more action than the fandom gives her.

You feel Kazuhira Miller looking at you as soon as you arrive at Mother Base. Can’t blame him, really. You are barely dressed and you have been deposited directly into his arms by a balloon. His hands slide up your thighs to catch you, holding you still to release the harness. Soon you are wearing spare fatigues that make you feel like a child playing dress-up, sleeves flopping down over your fingers. 

After that he watches, and his gaze feels different from the other soldiers'. At first you think it’s just the sunglasses—ridiculous and so very American—that make it impossible to see where he’s looking. But it is not only that. The other men on base give you admiring, hopeful glances. Kaz looks at you like you’re a ripening fruit he’s waiting for the perfect moment to pluck. Not if—when. 

He does not strike you as the type of man who is used to being told no—especially not by women. 

You watch him on a trip to the beach, furtively. You wouldn’t want to swell his already bulbous head. He wears that tiny swimsuit with the bravado of a runway model, sitting with his boss and getting progressively handsier as he drinks, leaning into Snake’s space, fingers flirting with his knee. When Snake finally does let his hand linger on Kaz’s shoulder, the gesture is friendly, almost fatherly, but Kaz’s blush is deep enough to see across the beach. 

You add the interaction to the tally in your head. Kaz has several pages in your mental notebook. Who’d have thought you’d find such a colorful bird to watch way out in the middle of the ocean?

-

Kaz lasts fifteen days before trying his luck, swaggering up to you after hours on base, one hand adjusting his scarf, the other holding a beer. “Want a drink? I can grab one from the kitchen.” 

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t like beer. It is thin and so rarely satisfying.” 

His mouth twitches, nostrils flaring like a dog scenting a trail. “That just means you haven’t tried the right beer.” 

The sounds of a card game drift down from the covered deck. A gull cries just off the platform. “Hmm.” You take the bottle from him and put It to your lips. His breathing changes noticeably, and you let him back you up against the railing, the sea at your back. You wonder if he’d take his sunglasses off to kiss you, if you’d be allowed to look into those pretty blue eyes. You take another drink. “Not so bad. But I still wish we had wine.” 

“Well, good thing you know the guy who can make that happen.” 

You laugh. Kaz is ridiculous and deeply earnest, and terrified of anyone finding out. You set the bottle down and put your arms around his neck. He slides his hands over your hips. He would fuck you right here, less than ten yards from his office, if you let him. 

“Let us dispense with any pretenses between us,” you whisper. “You couldn’t handle me, Monsieur Miller.” 

His hands travel from your hips to the dip of your waist. “Why don’t you try me and find out?” His breath on your ear makes you shudder. 

You push him away. Then you go to your quarters and touch yourself to the memory of the kicked puppy look on his face. 

—

He tries again later in the month, one evening underneath a tumultuous sky. The storm has knocked out communications, and until the intel team gets them back up, there will be no news from the boss. That always puts Kaz in a mood, pacing like a hound waiting for its master to come home, or puttering like a wife keeping dinner warm for an absent husband. You should just leave him alone to stew in his juices, observe from afar like you do in the jungle, but there is just something about Kaz, some combination of the jawline and the swagger and the awful cologne. You can’t help getting involved. 

You go into his office without bothering to knock. He sits behind his desk, sunglasses off, rubbing at his eyes like they’re sore. He jerks up and makes an aborted movement toward his glasses, abandoned when he realizes that he will look sillier for reacting like you have caught him with his trousers down. 

“Unless you're here for a fuck, Miss Caminades, I don't have the energy." 

You don’t say anything. He wants you to puff up and storm off the way you have with the other men who got too familiar. Best to show off the hysterics early so no one tries again. But you just look at him, hold his gaze until he blinks and presses his fingers to his forehead. 

“I’m sorry, that was crude of me. I’m not thinking straight.” 

You consider telling him that Snake is going to be fine, but you aren’t here to comfort him. And you don’t want to talk about Snake. 

“I am French, _monsieur_. You are not going to shock me.” 

He sits back in his chair. “Oh, yeah?” 

You grin and drift over to his desk. Up close you really can see the Japanese in Kaz, despite the clear blue eyes. He is terribly handsome, his body language sensual and open, blatantly inviting. You have to exert a physical effort not to climb into his lap. “You Americans. So open yet so prudish. I would be worried you’d get lost on the way down.” 

One of Kaz’s eyebrows quirk. He squirms in his seat just a little. God, but he’s easy to rile up. “You know I’m not American, don’t you?” 

He licks his lips and arousal punches through you. “Hmm…American enough.” You picture him above you, behind you, teeth in your shoulder and hands on your breasts. “Don’t you have work to do? Your boss could call at any moment.” 

Kas’s knuckles go white as he grips the arms of his chair. “This.” His throat moves as he swallows. “This is the worst part of this job.” 

You tilt your head. “The waiting?” 

He nods. 

You leave him in his office, hard and lonely and aching. If you dream of blue eyes and a soft pink tongue, well, nobody has to know. 

—

See, you have no intention of actually going through with it. Miller has all of Mother Base to work his way through, and after that one fractured moment in his office, you don’t see his eyes or hear the fearful hitch in his voice. He is back to his shiny chrome finish. You can appreciate a show pony, but you don’t want to fuck one. 

It’s evening, breezy and beautiful like it always is here, except when it rains. You’re waiting outside the boss’s office, ready with another batch of bird calls to teach him. Nobody else on base cares about ornithology, and if the boss doesn’t, he at least feigns his interest convincingly, which you suppose may be easier to do with only one eye. You like the legendary Naked Snake, he is another grand subject of study. You are delighted at watching him react with suspicious fascination at even the most basic areas of civilian life. Sometimes talking to Big Boss feels like talking to a child, and sometimes it feels like talking to a wild dog. And when the light hits him just right and he’s in the right mood, it’s like talking to a man you know could pick you up with one hand and crush your ribs to dust. He’s never shown any hint of interest in you, which is both a relief and a grave disappointment. 

He and Commander Miller have been in there for over an hour, and when Kaz finally emerges, the sun is just a fiery line at the edge of the horizon. His face is bare—he is holding his broken sunglasses cradled in his hands. Color burns high on his cheeks, and at first you think he has ink on his jaw, a bluish patch of discoloration, before you realize what you’re looking at. You think of your housemate back in Paris, Anna with the soft voice and tiny wrists, who would come home from dates with fresh bruises the size of lemons on her cheeks. 

You don’t think that is exactly what has happened here, but you see the wreckage of Kaz’s hair, the hard ridge of an erection poorly stowed in his uniform trousers, and the animal shock of fight or flight when he sees you watching him. A prism of facts compile in your head like data fed into a processor. 

“Cécile—.” 

His voice is smoky at the edges, roughened. A hot, brutal shot of arousal kicks you in the gut. His mouth is already swollen from hard use, and the little noise of pain he makes when you ease against him and bite his bottom lip sends the feeling all the way to your extremities. You already know what he will taste like when he opens his mouth for you, but it’s still a full-body shock. Bleachy and sour, and most likely half your imagination, but you still moan as he pushes you against the railing and kisses you with the sort of desperation you’ve only experienced from the very young or the very stoned. You press your palm between his legs and he jerks against you. 

—

His cabin is closer, so that’s where you go. 

He’s got your trousers half off before you even hit the mattress, hands trembling, pupils blown huge. Never in a thousand years had you expected this frenetic, shivering lust, and you know it has more to do with who he’d just had his mouth on than with you, but it doesn’t matter. He makes a soft, almost keening noise of desire when he gets his fingers in your panties and feels exactly how wet you are, how wet you’ve been since you tasted Snake on his tongue. 

He pulls off your bra and bites at your nipples, turning them pink and making your cunt pulse. His fingers start to move and you gasp, almost too sensitive. “Does he fuck you,” you breathe against his neck. He bites you harder. You jerk and come blindingly fast, holding him by the wrist so you can grind against his hand. 

“Are you jealous?” Kaz asks, and you laugh at him, gaspingly, your shoulders heaving against the bed. He starts rubbing you again, two fingers against your clit, flicking it hard and making you yell and jerk. 

“That—that hurts—.” You swear at him in French, but grab his fingers before he can pull away. “More, harder, you told me you could—ahhhhh…” Another wave hits you, harder than before, and you’re thrashing in his arms like a hooked fish. 

“Do you have a—.” What’s the goddamn English word? 

Kaz jerks your trousers down the rest of the way. “I’ll pull out.” 

You know exactly where he’s been, and it’s in the cunt of every woman on this base, and Big Boss besides, but you let him fuck you bare anyway. He hadn’t been exaggerating, he is very good at it, but you’d known this. What you hadn’t known was the blind desperation in his eyes, the way he holds on to you like you are the last thing between him and deep water. 

Eventually your aggression gives out. He allows you to set the pace, rolling him over and riding him in a slow grind, keeping him deep. It’s been a long time and you like the noises he makes when you’re above him. 

“Do you think that if you fuck me well enough I won’t tell anyone about you and your boss?” It’s nasty, but you say it anyway, because you want to see what he does. 

He grabs you by the waist and pulls you down to suck at your neck. “You’re a little viper, you know that?” 

You hum and roll your hips. “Is that why you like me so much?” 

He laughs. You are startled to realize that you are right. He does like you. And he does think that you are going to destroy his reputation on the base. You won’t, you respect Snake too much for that, and you owe him your life. 

But Kaz doesn’t know that. 

You let him finish on your breasts, his fingers twisting right under the head of his cock, squeezing his eyes shut and groaning out a high, pathetic whine. You pull his face down between your legs before he can catch his breath, panting hard and hectic against you, and you finally, finally feel that filthy pink tongue exactly where you’ve wanted it for months. 

“Does your boss call you names?” You ask, fisting your fingers in your own hair. “What does he call you? Whore? Slut?” He moans against you and your hips jerk up. “Or is he silent?” 

Kaz’s eyes are soft in the dark. He wraps strong hands around your thighs. You understand now how he breaks so many hearts; it would be so easy to see the way he looks at you and imagine that what he’s feeling is love or devotion, instead of pure, unfiltered need. Need to be touched, to be desired, to be praised. You stroke his hair, and you don’t even have to play up your gasps to give him what he wants. 

You are sensitive to the point of numbness by now, so it takes a long time, but he gets you there, relentless, holding your hips down as you buck and twist, your moans breaking into rough shouts as his tongue writhes against you. 

Afterward you share his long, strange pipe and let him hold you, propped up with your back against his chest. 

You hum and release a stream of white smoke. “It’s called…what?” 

“A kiseru.” His accent slips out around the Japanese word. You like how it sounds. 

“Say something else,” you tell him.

“What?” 

“Say something in Japanese.” 

He does. It’s so swift you can’t parse it out into words. “Now you say something in French.” 

You pass him back the pipe. “You must have heard French before.” 

“Not recently.” 

“Hmm. _La violence, sous quelque forme qu’elle se manifeste, est un échec._ ”

Kaz’s chest moves behind you as he inhales. “Do you miss it?” 

“France?” 

He taps the pipe out on the nightstand, getting the ash everywhere expect the ashtray. “Yeah.” 

“Do you miss Japan?” 

You feel him laugh more than hear it. “I haven’t been there in years. Yeah. Sometimes.” 

“I would like to see it,” you say. You feel like you’re following a script. “The cherry blossoms.” You want to ask him what Big Boss is like in bed, but you should probably let at least 24 hours elapse between sleeping with Kaz and bringing that up. Instead you reach up to trace a fingertip over the deepening splotch of color on his face. He flinches but he doesn’t pull away. “Are you okay?” You don’t mean to ask, and you certainly don’t expect him to answer. 

He breathes out. The pipe smolders on the bedside table. “I have no idea what I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Cécile is quoting Sartre: "Any violence, in whatever form it manifests, is a failure." the title is also from Sartre because i'm a parody of myself: "life begins on the other side of despair."


End file.
